


The Mysterious Mr. Gold

by zoe19blink



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Psychological Horror, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:48:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22568083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoe19blink/pseuds/zoe19blink
Summary: Several strangers have been invited to Wolfsgate Manor. The house is as old and grand and mysterious as the owner. Everyone comes with their own secrets and their own nightmares, carefully hidden away in the corners of their minds. Suspicion and curiosity haunt the guests.Who is this mysterious Mr. Gold?And what is the evil that lives in his house?*Will add characters, ratings, etc. as they apply with addition of new chapters. Friendly to all ships, though some may be more emphasized than others.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	The Mysterious Mr. Gold

Neal stared dully through the rain-soaked windshield as he drove half-speed down the winding road. Tree branches hung heavily overhead, obscuring his distant view with foliage and darkness. It was barely 5 p.m., but already the sky was a deep blue twilight, stars faintly peering through the clouds. It lengthened an already long, lonely drive: the radio had frazzled out an hour and there were no other cars traveling along the road. Wolfsgate wasn’t _remote,_ as Mrs. Lucas had described, so much as _completely removed from society._

The letter lay open on the passenger seat, creased with folds and handwritten, oddly enough, in a thin, jagged scrawl. It had been what drew Neal’s eye initially, stopping him from tossing it out with the rest of the junk mail. Instead, he’d read it in a daze of deepening bewilderment that ended with him sinking into the kitchen stool, openmouthed at the sheer amount of luck that struck his life.

_Dear Mr. Cassidy,_

_I am writing to you in a state of admiration after reading your piece recently featured in_ The New York Times. _I have studied literature for nearly half a century, and I quite feared it was dying a slow, bitter death, giving way to a society that has abandoned art in favor of fashion. Your words, however, have proven to me that there may still be hope; that there may still be new worlds to discover between the covers of a book._ “Never, Never” _has filled me with an inspiration I have not felt since my youth, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for it._

_In that spirit, I would like to extend to you an invitation to my home at Wolfsgate Manor, for the chance to discuss your work and the possibility of employing you as my biographer. My life has been uniquely blessed with extraordinary experiences; and as I have no remaining family, I would like to leave my memories to the world. You are the only person to whom I feel I can entrust these precious secrets, and I pray you will consider taking on such a task._

_If you are interested, please contact the number I have listed below. I am currently abroad in France, taking care of estate affairs, but my household staff is more than capable of addressing any questions or concerns you may have._

_Again, I am sure a writer with your talents is already overwhelmed with offers and opportunities, but I hope you will consider accepting this one. In the end, memories are our own legacy; and words the only means of preservation. Few can be trusted with such power, and I know, in my heart and soul, that you are among these few._

_Most sincerely yours,_

_R.J. Gold_

For a few minutes, Neal had sat in utter stillness. The kitchen faucet _drip-dipped,_ steadily as ever, the neighbors argued in muffled Spanish overhead— he heard none of it. Ten years as a struggling writer, working as a goddam barista just to make ends meet, and finally— _finally—_ someone was willing take a chance on him.

 _Kinda weird, though,_ a voice nagged at the back of his mind; but he ignored it. At worst, it was a job. At best? A career. Taking on a project like this could get his name out there; and if this guy was rich enough to hire a biographer, who knew what kind of contacts he had?

It was only a few moments before he’d called the number Gold had given him. A woman with a brusque voice answered, introducing herself as Mrs. Lucas.

“ _The housekeeper,_ ” she’d clarified. “ _Mr. Gold is unavailable at this time, but he will be delighted to hear that you’ve called. Mr. Cassidy, I presume?”_

 _“Wha—?”_ Neal nearly dropped the phone, stammering. “ _H-how did you know?”_

 _“We’ve been expecting your call.”_ Mrs. Lucas paused, the sound of shuffling papers crackling over the line. “ _Am I to understand that you are accepting Mr. Gold’s invitation to Wolfsgate?”_

 _“Uh…_ ” Neal scratched the back of his neck, walking in a slow circle around the counter. “ _Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am.”_

 _“And do you have a means of apersonal transportation? We are located in a somewhat…_ remote _area. Not accessible by bus or train, I’m afraid.”_

_“That’s okay, I’ve got a car.”_

_“Excellent.”_

Mrs. Lucas had gone on to give him what she called “guidelines” for his stay at the house. Neal didn’t really pay attention, as it was mostly things like, “Pack sweaters, the house is drafty in winter”: he was too busy imagining how his life was going to change. He’d get a better apartment; pay off the last of those student loans; and maybe—if his luck had _really_ turned around—become a full-time writer. There’d be time to do research and travel and experience; time to hone his craft and build a reputation until he was one of those names on the bookshelves that everyone knew.

It was well worth a few weeks in a drafty house with an eccentric old man.

So —despite the rain, despite the hours, despite the uneven roads—he had nothing to complain about during the long drive to Wolfsgate. But the gathering storm overhead seemed to be on the verge of breaking, so he couldn’t help feeling relieved when he finally pulled up to the cobblestone driveway.

He stared. _Holy shit._

It could have been pulled directly from the pages of a gothic thriller. A wrought-iron gate protected the expansive grounds, which seemed to hold miles of dark grass and and a forest of evergreens. There was a gardener’s shed half-hidden behind the house with a heavy lock that was visible even from this distance, and a stack of chopped logs next to it. The mansion itself loomed like a great, gray spirit, with endless windows and balconies,and castle-like spires reaching for the thunder clouds overhead. The roof was made of interlocking black shingles that gripped the walls like dragon scales, glinting as lightning cracked the sky. As he drove up the winding driveway, Neal was almost surprised to see a sleek black car instead of a horse and carriage.

He parked a respectable distance behind the other car and pulled his collar higher before opening the door. Rain barreled down violently on the roof of his car as the storm raged more furiously. Cursing himself for not bringing an umbrella, he ducked his head in a pathetic attempt to shield himself. The short walk to the door was enough to drench his flimsy coat and soak the insides of his boots. Neal shivered and lifted his hand to knock on the heavy wooden door.

Before his knuckles brushed the wood, there was a loud _creee-eeak_ of rusty hinges. Neal stepped back in surprise, blinking at the young, dark-haired woman who’d opened the door. A pair of luminous green eyes searched him briefly.

“Neal Cassidy?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“Yeah.” Neal shifted his gaze behind her, hoping to see some sign of an older woman, but there was no one. “You’re not Mrs. Lucas, are you?”

“No. I’m Ruby. She asked me to show you in, so she could finish preparing the evening meal.” She opened the door wider and stepped to the side, so he could pass. “Don’t worry about your things. I’ll send Graham to fetch them later and bring them to your room.”

“Thanks.” Neal shook rainwater off his boots as he stepped inside, then shrugged off his coat. Ruby took it wordlessly, slinging it around a heavy wire hanger, and disappeared down a short hallway.

Neal waited awkwardly for her to come back, shifting back and forth on his heels, glancing around somewhat nervously. The foyer was dimly lit, decorated with shadows between the lamplights, but he could see evidence of wealth: portraits along the walls with gilded frames; thick, ornate carpets down the stairs; small sculptures guarding the hallways and corners of angelic figures and weeping Virgin Mary’s.

“Mr. Gold has a fondness for art.”

“Jesus!” Neal jumped and whirled around, his eyes wide. Ruby was standing behind him, a faintly derisive smile on her lips.

“Apologies, sir,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Neal shook his head, still trying to catch his breath. “It’s...fine,” he said. “Sorry, my head must have been elsewhere.”

“That happens to writers,” she agreed. She swept around Neal, still talking as she led him down the hallway. “I expect it’s because you’re always trying to think of things to write about.”

“More like listening,” Neal shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Thinking of the words is like forcing it. Never turns out right when you force it. You gotta listen for the words, and just kinda hope they’re the ones you need.”

They came to a stop in front of two polished, wooden doors hung with heavy silver handles. Ruby gripped both in either hand and pulled them open, revealing a spacious room with an enormous fireplace. Just standing in the doorway was enough to warm his chilled bones, and Neal thought longingly of pulling up one of those over-cushioned armchairs right in front of the flames and staying there for hours.

“Your room isn’t quite ready yet, so the lounge will have to do for now. We’re a bit out of range for internet or cell service, but you can help yourself to any of the books—” she pointed at the far corner, which had tall bookshelves, fully stocked with leather-bound books—“as long as you handle them gently. Mr. Gold is quite particular about his library. Early editions and the like, very delicate.”

“There’s something about reading out of an old copy…” Neal mused. “Makes the story more alive. Like you’re really there.”

Ruby smiled, as though she didn’t entirely believe him. “I suppose there _is_ a certain charm to it,” she said, before turning around and gesturing at an armchair. “Now make yourself comfortable. I can bring you some tea or coffee, if you like?”

“Coffee, please. If it’s not a bother.”

“Coffee, it is.” She smiled again, giving a little nod of respect, and exited the room. Neal watched her silhouette grow smaller and smaller, giving into shadow as she disappeared down the hall. Once she had faded from sight, he turned around. The armchair seemed to beckon him as exhaustion weighed down his muscles like a heavy cloak, and that fire looked so deliciously warm and inviting.

He crossed the room and gripped the armchair by the headrest to push it close to the fire, which crackled and snapped beneath the burning logs. Before he settled in, he decided to grab a book off the shelf. Reading relaxed his mind as much as the rest would relax his body.

Titles in peeling gold paint jumped out at him as he scanned the shelves for something interesting. _Oliver Twist, Sense and Sensibility, Crime and Punishment—_ all the classics. Hardly surprising, considering Gold was a self-proclaimed student of literature. After another few moments of deliberation, he finally selected _Treasure Island._ A third edition, he noted as he drifted back to his chair, mildly impressed. That couldn’t have come cheap.

He sank into the chair, already immersed in the familiar words Soothed by the warmth of the fire and the soft cushions beneath his head, it wasn’t long before he felt his eyelids starting to close.

“…all right, get this shot over here, with the fireplace…” Sounds of shuffling footsteps and few clicks of a camera lens adjusting. The woman’s voice murmured a few more instructions as the footsteps moved slowly around the room. Neal rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, trying to focus on the blurry shapes around him.

A slim blonde woman strutted around the room, the heels of her boots _thunk!_ ing into the floor as she pointed at various objects. She seemed to be directing as the dark-haired man, half-hidden behind a large camera, moved in her wake.

“And these, Jones, I want these books in there. Gold’s known for the whole book-thing, so we’re going to need footage of his collection.”

“I can’t.” Jones lowered his camera, grimacing in annoyance. “That guy’s in the way of my shot.”

“What guy?” Swan swiveled her head around. When her gaze landed on Neal, her eyebrows jumped. “Oh!” she said with a surprised laugh. “Sorry, we didn’t know anyone was in here.”

“That’s okay.” Neal tried to smile, but he was too confused. He rose from the chair, his joints cracking in weary protest, and stepped closer to the pair. Swan smiled winningly at him and stuck her hand out.

“Emma Swan,” she declared. “This is my partner, Killian Jones—Jones, say hi—”

Jones mumbled something, fiddling with his camera.

“We’re working with the New England Historical Society on a documentary series on the oldest homes of the East Coast,” Swan went on. “Wolfsgate is one of the gems we were really hoping to get access to, so we’re just thrilled to be here! Are you the owner?”

“No,” Neal snorted. “I’m, uh…I’m just a guest.”

Jones looked up, fixing a pair of quizzical blue eyes on Neal. “A guest?” he echoed, a vaguely Irish accent clipping his words. “What’s that mean?”

“The owner commissioned me for some work, invited me to stay for a few days.” Neal gave a little shrug, as though it were every day that he received personal invitations to historical mansions. Swan looked impressed, but Jones merely scoffed and shook his head.

“You’re mad, staying in this grimy place of your own choosing. I’d leave in a heartbeat, if I could get all my footage in one day.” He fiddled with his camera a bit more, pressing buttons forcefully; then cursed, slammed it shut, and glared at his partner. “Battery’s shot. Might’ve been able to get a bit more of the books, if I hadn’t had to film the bloody walls for an hour.”

“Those walls are filled with priceless artwork!” Swan exclaimed as he stalked out of the room. Jones responded with a rude gesture, which made her sputter in exasperation. She turned to Neal with wide eyes. “He appreciates nothing,” she said in wonder. “Unbelievable.”

“He might learn to,” Neal said, looking around the room with a considering eye. The books were precious, of course; but there was such an ancient feeling to the entire house that wisdom and memories seemed to seep out of the very walls. Standing in a place that held so much history made him feel…Well, _immortal_ wasn’t quite the right word. Not like he would live forever, but more like he had always been. Like there was no past, no present, no future; because time did not exist in eternity.

Yeah, that was it. That was the word.

_Eternity._

“Wow.” The sound of Emma Swan’s stunned voice him broke him out of his thoughts. She was staring at him, her hands reaching into her shoulder bag and extracting a pen and notepad. “Can I quote you on that?”

Neal blinked, startled. “Wait, was I talking out loud?”

“Very eloquently so,” Swan assured him, already scribbling. “What was that bit you said in the beginning? About history in the walls, or something?”

“I dunno, I was just rambling.” Neal shifted his eyes, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. He felt compelled to offer some sort of explanation—to keep her from pressing him for more quotes, if nothing else—and said, “I’m a writer, of sorts. Gold’s just asked me here to help him with his book of memoirs. I don’t really know anything about the house.”

“And how do you know Gold?” Swan said, undeterred. Her pen had not lifted from her notepad and was still scribbling furiously.

Neal shrugged. “I don’t. Never even met him.”

“But he offered you a job? Invited you to his home?” Swan looked up, confusion plain on her face. “Why?

That was the million-dollar-question. _Why?_ Neal still didn’t understand; still didn’t believe it. Gold’s invitation was as surreal as his gothic mansion and priceless literature. Neal’s life had been trapped under a gray cloud, going nowhere fast, until that letter arrived. That letter…It had knit everything together inperfect tapestry of mystery and beauty, and _why_ was the loose thread that unravel it all. To keep questioning it was to poke holes in the logic of a beautiful dream. Why try to figure it all out now? Why not simply enjoy it, until it came to its inevitable end?

“You’d have to ask him,” Neal said finally. “All I know is, he likes my work and decided to give me a chance. That’s enough for me.”

Swan looked at him for a long time, as though he were some sort of puzzle she could not solve. Then, with a nod and a thoughtful _hmph_ , she capped the pen, closed the notepad, and returned them both to her bag.

“You’re an interesting character, Neal Cassidy,” she exhaled. “I don’t know what to make of you.”

Neal raised his eyebrows, amused. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Depends.” Swan’s gaze flicked back to his. Her eyes were a dull green, but somehow made piercing: they were full of shrewdness, and mischief and something dark and unknown lurking behind it all. “I don’t let riddles go unsolved, so until I _do_ know what to make of you…It’s going to be hard to get rid of me.”


End file.
